This coat is still fresh.
It hasn't dried completely yet
and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers
yet to be believed
or understood.
I would have liked to see you when you were first made
standing cold
and untainted,
but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long.
You've been painted over so many times
so many coats.
Some of them are delicate
an airbrush of experience
barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm.
Others are thick,
heavy,
dark and muddled,
confused,
they stain down deep
thrown on all at once
a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded.
I can tell about those
the ones that didn't dry smooth
and formed misshapen globs of character,
and regret,
that bump and scrape, against the outside world
against its professional counter parts.
That's what makes you whole
that's what I admire.
When I look close
and run my fingers over your painting of personality
the bits that are constantly bending
and moving
the way they peel
and crack
and let me see
all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret.
I don't want to wash this abused collage away.
I want to spread and muddle it all together,
and use your hues
your pallet of pity and perfection
to help paint over those secret parts of me
that I don't want to be found either.